


and my heart slipped through my fingers

by winchesters



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: M/M, dumb french hunks, starring thief!grantaire and student!enjolras
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-01
Updated: 2013-04-04
Packaged: 2017-12-07 03:34:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/743723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winchesters/pseuds/winchesters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire is a pickpocket. Enjolras is a promising university student. When their paths cross, neither of their lives will be the same.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

He’s walking home from the university-a night class, taught by an ancient Roman History professor-when the thief strikes. It happens so fast that he barely notices: one moment Enjolras is striding down the Rue Saint-Jacques, the next someone is slamming into him at top speed, nearly sending them both toppling to the pavement. Enjolras reaches automatically to steady the stranger, a lanky boy with a mop of dark, curly hair.   
“I’m sorry,” he begins, and his eyes meet the boys and they hold each other’s stares. His eyes are blue, piercingly so. The younger man jerks out of his grasp.  
“S’alright, monsieur,” he says, then gives Enjolras a tiny bow. He turns and disappears into the crowd like a ghost, leaving only the lingering smell of cheap cigarettes behind. Someone else crashes into his shoulder, and Enjolras stumbles. He realizes that he’s been standing in a stupor, staring in the vague direction of the blue-eyed boy. Shaking his head, he turns and heads for home. ‘Home’ meaning a dingy flat above a café in the Latin Quarter, the kind of place frequented by the desperate and the debauched. Not unlike Enjolras himself, cut off from the family fortune, doomed to die a poor scholar.   
It’s not until after he shuts the door of his flat and removes his coat that he realizes that his wallet his missing. 

Later that evening, in the corner of the dingy Tois Amis pub, Grantaire rifles through the contents of the wallet he’d lifted off a handsome student earlier. To his immense disappointment, there’s barely any money. A few pages of a book have been folded tightly into it, along with a scrap of red fabric. Also to his disappointment, there’s nothing indicating the address of the wallet’s owner. He’d been attractive, in a naïve, almost angelic way. Grantaire wouldn’t mind seeing more of him. He knows the type, of course: young and handsome students, studying political science and literature at the university, the only son of a wealthy aristocrat. He would have grown up in opulence: a second home in the country, summers spent by the seaside, a small army of servants and caretakers at beck and call.   
“Anything good?”   
Eponine drops into the seat across from him, reaching for the wallet. Grantaire pulls it away, stuffs it in his pocket.  
“No. Just a few sous.”   
Eponine takes a swig of Grantaire’s wine.  
“Huh. Regret leaving our double act yet?”   
Grantaire rolls his eyes. Back when they were just street urchins fighting for their daily bread, they’d conned victims together, playing fainting sister and concerned older brother, the dynamic duo of the underground.   
“It was cute when we were twelve. Doubt anyone would buy it anymore.”   
Eponine toys with the cheap necklace around her neck.  
“Do you ever think about leaving this?” Grantaire asks, his fingers going to the wallet in his pocket. “Having a normal life?”  
She looks at him, and her eyes are full and dark and sad.   
“No,” she says. “There is no normal for people like us.”   
And it breaks his heart a little, because he knows that it’s the truth. After Eponine leaves, Grantaire drinks until the light from the streetlights outside turns into stars, and his head is swimming with visions of what might have been. He drinks until Monsieur Brun, the usually good-natured barkeep, throws him out onto the street. He drags himself onto a nearby stoop and closes his eyes, slipping into an easy sleep. 

Enjolras returns to the Rue Saint-Jacques early the next morning, eager to find the thief. It’s not the loss of the wallet that bothers him-it’s the principle. Somewhere, some debauched young man is roaming the streets of Paris, believing that thievery is the only way to earn enough money to buy bread and perhaps a room at a flophouse for the night. Well, Enjolras plans to show him differently. Besides, in the republic that will follow the uprisings, there will be no place for petty thievery.   
There’s a laundry on the Rue Saint-Jacques near to the scene of the crime, and Enjolras drops in to ask about a slender young boy with dark, curly hair, yea high, who hung around the area. But the washerwoman denies knowing anyone of the sort, and suggests that Enjolras try the bar around the corner, where such types frequent. The Laughing Donkey is a dingy place, and the door is locked at the early hour. The barkeep’s comely daughter is polishing glasses when Enjolras knocks on the door.   
“Sorry, monsieur. We’re closed.”   
Enjolras shouts through the thin glass.  
“Does a boy with wild hair and blue eyes come here? He’d be poor, desperate.”   
The barkeep’s daughter shakes her head.  
“This is a place for old men,” she says. “Most of the younger ones go to the Trois Amis.”   
Enjolras nods and gives her a hasty bow, then hurries towards the corner. He knows where the Trois Amis is, has been dragged there a few times by Courferyac. It’s the kind of place Enjolras dislikes: a house of ill repute, frequented by prostitutes and stevedores and thieves. But today, he is looking for a thief, so to the thieves’ den he will go. 

 

The Trois Amis is closed when Enjolras passes by, trying to look as innocent as possible. He hangs around a little, casually browsing the bookshop next door, until it opens just before noon. Already a crowd has gathered outside, obviously regulars of the establishment. They’re loutish and rough around the edges, Enjolras is clearly not one of them. There are a few women among the group, mostly haggard-looking prostitutes. However, one of them is young and pretty, dressed in rags despite the chilly weather. Enjolras approaches the barkeep, a heavy-set man in his late forties who sports an impressive mustache.   
“Beg your pardon, but do you know a young man about my age, wild dark hair, blue eyes? He’d be destitute,” Enjolras explains. The barkeep chuckles.  
“Monsieur Grantaire? I’ve thrown that drunkard out of my bar every night since he started coming here!”   
Grantaire. It’s not much, but it’s a start. As Enjolras turns to go, planning to stake out the bar from across the road, the pretty young brunette steps into his path.   
“What do you want with Grantaire?”  
Enjolras draws himself up to full height.   
“He stole my wallet. I want it back.”   
“He’s a good man,” the girl says, voice defensive. “I won’t let you have him arrested.”   
Enjolras almost chuckles. He’s had more trouble with the police than most pickpockets in Paris.   
“I won’t get the law involved; I despise them as much as a thief. But there’s something in the wallet that I want very much.”   
She narrows her eyes.  
“R said there wasn’t much money in it.”  
Enjolras gives her a sad smile.  
“It’s not money, mademoiselle.”   
She sighs tightly through her nose.  
“Fine. Meet me here tonight, eight o’clock. I’ll take you to him.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now that this website is done being a butt, I'll just leave this here. Wrote it on the plane from Seattle, my fingers shaking the whole time because I suffer from aviophobia (that's a fear of dying in something that flies). Little Star Trek reference there, because I am a grumpy asshole like Bones sometimes. Anyway, enjoy. Sorry for any errors. I love all of you, my darlings!

At eight o’clock, Enjolras sits outside the Trois Amis, hands folded in front of him. He feels as if he is waiting for a train that may never arrive, so he has busied himself with leafing through a newspaper scavenged from an empty table. He is reading about the ongoing trial of a jealous butcher accused of murdering a costumer who exchanged flirtations with his wife when someone taps him roughly on the shoulder. He twists in his seat to see him: Grantaire. Dark, wild hair framing a pale but handsome face, and lively blue eyes that regard Enjolras with an anxious curiosity.   
“You must be Grantaire,” Enjolras says, gesturing for the other boy to take the empty seat across from him. Grantaire seems flighty and nervous; he doesn’t want to spook him.   
“I am,” says the young thief. “I assume your name will remain a mystery.”   
Enjolras debates giving the other boy a false identity, but decides against it.   
“Enjolras.”   
Grantaire reaches into his pocket, withdrawing the wallet. He places it on the table between them, like a glove inviting duel.   
“I took nothing from it,” he says slowly. “Not even the money.”   
Enjolras bites back a laugh. He might be a promising student and Grantaire a thief, but he can sympathize with another impoverished young man.   
“I don’t care about the money,” he replies. “I hardly consider myself a romantic, but the wallet does hold a certain sentimental value to me.”   
Grantaire hesitates before sliding the wallet towards him a few inches.  
“Eponine told me that you refused to go to the police,” he says. “I thank you for that.”   
Enjolras’ hand creeps towards the leather wallet.  
“I hardly trust the law in this city, given the level of corruption amongst them.”   
Grantaire cracks a small smile.  
“Do you need a few sous?” Enjolras asks, prepared to donate a little money to the most honest pickpocket he’s encountered yet. “For food?”  
Grantaire snorts.  
“I’ll not take your money,” he says. “I thank you for not having me arrested; I’ll be on my way.”   
Enjolras stands, pushing his chair back and abandoning the newspaper. He slides the wallet into his pocket and allows Grantaire a slight nod.  
“Thank you for your honesty.”   
He turns, prepared to depart, when Grantaire speaks.   
“Was it the cloth?”  
Enjolras freezes, unsure of how to answer. To tell the truth would be to reveal something dark and secret, almost sacred. And yet he did not want to sully Grantaire’s display of honesty by lying.  
“Yes.”   
A beat of silence.  
“Why, monsieur Enjolras?”   
Enjolras’ upper lip twists slightly.  
“Like I said,” he murmurs. “I am sentimental.”   
He is halfway up the street, shoulders hunched against the chilly night, when he hears the shouts. A fight has broken out just outside the Trois Amis: two stocky lads have seized Grantaire and hauled him up, one is holding him by the jacket while the other drives his fist into Grantaire’s stomach. Enjolras turns without thinking and sprints towards the tussle.   
“Arretez!” He shouts, throwing an ineffective shove towards Grantaire’s assailant. The larger man growls a curse at him and swats Enjolras away like a pesky fly. Physical fighting never was his territory: he preferred to do battle with his sharp tongue as a weapon. Fisticuffs were always left to Bahorel or, in a pinch, Courferyac who was small but a scrappy fighter. Still, he lands a decent strike at the man’s blocky jaw, and Grantaire’s attacker stumbles.   
“If you want the law after you,” Enjolras threatens, bringing his hands up, “continue with your assault. If not, I suggest you leave at once!”   
The men exchange glances, weighing their options. Evidently, they decide that they’d rather escape with their freedom than risk a trip to jail. These streets are patrolled by Inspector Javert, a ruthless officer who readily uses both his powers of arrest and his baton.   
The man holding Grantaire releases his grip, allowing the young thief to slide to the pavement, where he lies prone as his assailants flee into the grimy Paris night. Enjolras kneels beside him, mud blooming through the knees of his pants, but he pays no mind to the suddenly dampness. Grantaire groans on the cobbles, his nose bloody, a split lip dripping crimson liquid down his jaw.   
“Are you alright?” Enjolras helps Grantaire into a seated position. “They’ve beaten you badly, perhaps you need a doctor.”   
“I’ll be fine,” Grantaire mumbles. “I’m more in need of wine than any doctor.”   
Enjolras aids the young thief to his feet, where he stands unsteadily with Enjolras gripping his arm.   
“You’ll come to my flat,” Enjolras decides, his tight grip not allowing another option. “You’re not fit to walk on your own. Besides, these streets are dangerous.”   
Grantaire lets out a loud groan as they begin making their way down the long, sloping street towards the river. Enjolras has one arm slung around the slenderer man, and Grantaire leans heavily on him as they trek onwards. 

 

“Nice flat,” Grantaire says a half hour later, perched on the edge of a wooden chair in Enjolras’ tiny apartment. Enjolras kneels before him, a bowl of water and a cloth bandage beside him. It’s a lucky thing Joly insists on stocking his friends’ homes with spare medical supplies.   
“It’s a roof over my head,” Enjolras replies, gently prodding Grantaire’s ribs. “More than many can say.”   
Grantaire opens his mouth to speak, but instead lets out a high whine of pain. His cheeks redden in obvious embarrassment.   
“Sorry.”   
Enjolras raises his eyebrows.  
“There is no need to apologize, citizen.” He hands Grantaire the cloth to wipe the blood from his face.   
“Citizen,” Grantaire repeats, and when he brings the wet cloth from his face it is stained pink with blood. “Do you refer to everyone as citizen?”   
Enjolras remembers, suddenly, that Grantaire is not a member of the ABC’s, that he is a simple pickpocket who would never understand the fire of revolution, much less the desire to better the world.   
“I dislike stuffiness,” he replies simply. “Shall I bandage your ribs?”  
Grantaire slowly unbuttons his blood-stained shirt, lets it slide to the floor. A purple bruise is already blooming on his pale ribcage, and when Enjolras brushes his fingers against it, it’s hot and swollen.   
“I’m afraid you may have broken them,” he tells Grantaire, although he’s hardly qualified to diagnose the man’s condition. He’s seen Bahorel attain similar injuries in street fights, he’s watched Joly fret over him and dress his wounds.   
“This will hurt,” he warns, as he pressed the bandage to Grantaire’s chest and begins to wrap it. The other man winces and lets out a hiss of pain.   
“I’m accustomed to pain,” Grantaire says through gritted teeth. “At least, one would hope.”   
Enjolras wonders what he means by this, but doesn’t press it. He’s suddenly very aware of their physical proximity, and his place between Grantaire’s knees. Abruptly, he feels awkward, and finishes wrapping the bandage with haste. He secures it with a pin, then rifles through his chest of clothes to provide Grantaire with a clean shirt. The other man has already risen from the chair and is rifling through Enjolras’ cabinet.  
“Have you got any wine?”   
Enjolras frowns. He disapproves of alcohol on a moral basis, has seen the effect it has on men. However, Grantaire is obviously in great pain, and Joly-a doctor, a reliable source-has been known to prescribe liquor as an agent of comfort.   
“Perhaps,” he begins, but Grantaire has already honed in on a dusty bottle half-hidden behind jars of preserves and a sack of flour and is uncorking it. He drinks straight from the bottle, to Enjolras’ mild horror. After a few minutes, during which he consumes the wine at an alarming rate, Grantaire sets the bottle down and brushes a thumb across his mouth.  
“I thank you for your hospitality, monsieur,” he says. “And for your medicine.”   
Enjolras catches his arm as he makes for the door.  
“You cannot leave,” he protests. “You’re in poor health…and already half-drunk, it would appear.”   
Grantaire hiccups and shrugs.  
“If you insist,” he answers, and then collapses to the floor, his will sapped from both the pain and the wine.   
Enjolras hauls him to the narrow bed in the corner and deposits him there, pausing for a moment to look down at Grantaire’s face. He appears much more youthful in sleep, almost innocent. Enjolras turns away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A kudos, perhaps? Or a review? You know you want to. Thanks for reading, my darling darlings!

**Author's Note:**

> Please excuse the crappy ending uwu


End file.
